


Rock the Night Away

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Christmas, Fear of touching, First Time, Loneliness, M/M, Slow Everything, Smut, happy endings, romance kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barry is alone on Christmas Eve. He doesn't expect to find company in Captain Cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock the Night Away

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ColdFlash Secret Santa exchange on tumblr, for kendrasaunderses, who prompted: "Barry spends Christmas alone in a bar, at least that is until he sees a familiar face."

Finding a bar that doesn’t play Christmas music on December 24th is just as difficult as Barry would’ve guessed. He zips through the city and peeks into windows and doorways, but there’s some variation of Jingle Bells wherever he looks, tinsel and mistletoe and tiny plastic snowmen covering every possible surface.

 

It’s not that Barry hates Christmas – he’s just feeling immensely lonely and being reminded of the spirit of love he’s missing out on isn’t what he needs. He’s ready to give up and go pick up a few bottles of bourbon that will do absolutely nothing except remind him of his dad when he finds it. The place is tiny, hidden away between larger buildings with better luck and a prettier fate. The tired old neon sign winks at Barry as the soft sound of a muted rock ballad escapes from the doorway. He sighs in relief, even though he probably shouldn’t feel glad that there’s a place that is a physical incarnation of his current mental state, and pushes inside.

 

He sits down at the sticky, cracked bar and orders: the first shot doesn’t do much, and rationally, Barry knows he should not expect the next one to make any difference, but surprisingly, it does. Some of the pressure in Barry’s chest uncurls; it’s not that the loneliness disappears, it just spreads out over all of him, now that he has a place where he can let go and truly feel sorry for himself instead of cluttering up his tiny apartment with so many awful feelings.

 

He expected to spend the holidays with Joe, quote silly movies and watch the fireplace crackle with warmth, see if his fast metabolism meant that he could finish most of the Christmas turkey on his own, appreciate another year that went by without him destroying the world for real. But no matter how Barry begged, the hospital staff wouldn’t let him stay overnight, and he couldn’t bring himself to go back to Joe’s place alone. The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, which is probably a Christmas miracle on its own, considering the entry wound, but even the knowledge that Joe will be alright doesn’t make Barry feel less alone. Joe ordered him not to tell Iris – it made her ‘Merry Christmas’ call decidedly awkward, but he struggled through it with a forced smile on his lips and teased her about impressing Linda’s family.

 

He feels like an asshole, but he’s glad they’re gone. Linda’s grandmother in Florida has been getting worse and Linda wanted her to meet Iris no matter what, so they caught a flight a couple of days ago. While Barry wondered how it would feel, the first Christmas without Iris nearby, he was glad that he wouldn’t have to sit through dinner while pretending he was alright in order not to spoil other people’s happiness.

 

It’s not that he’s not happy for them. He is, he truly is, even if sometimes, he has to remind himself. But whenever he sees them watching each other with that special kind of spark in their eyes, it makes him wonder what made him… not _worse_ , just so spectacularly _wrong_ for both of them. He hates that jealous, small part of him that remembers the newspaper from the future, the part that kicks and screams and asks: _where is my own happy ending?_

 

Barry knows the answer to that one, deep down. Relationships are made up of more than promises and feelings; being the Flash, he can’t offer anyone the presence necessary to build a life together. Sometimes, he thinks it’s good that he never really got around to dating Iris – she would have felt the need to stick around, to stand by his side, and she would have been miserable doing it. With what they have, she can still do that and at the end of the day come home to someone who will not zip away in the next minute to stop a robbery or fight a metahuman. She can have late-night talks, whispered against each other’s naked skin, she can have long, lazy breakfasts and holidays spent without wondering if her significant other will come back before the dinner gets cold. She deserves all that and more, and Barry’s happy for her.

 

Trouble is, he craves all of that for himself so much that sometimes, he imagines his life if he never got his powers. If Zoom took them away, once and for all; if he just woke up one day and his speed was gone. Maybe Patty would have stuck around if that happened – he wouldn’t have had to lie to her, he would’ve never made her worry. She wouldn’t have had to watch him nearly get killed, several times. She wouldn’t have gotten hurt by so many metas… and maybe, if he could just put in some honest hours at CCPD and give the rest of his time to her, it would have been enough.

 

It’s no use thinking about it, but Barry can’t stop himself. He knocks back another shot and bitterly wishes he could get rid of his powers for a few hours so that he could at least get properly drunk.

 

A blast of cold air hits his back as the door creaks open and lets in the chilly wind. Barry looks up from his newly-refilled glass and his eyes widen just a fraction as he recognizes the newcomer. He’d know that parka anywhere… and while the rational part of his mind tells him to duck his head down and pretend he didn’t see Snart come in, the loneliness is pushing everything else away to the extent that Barry finds himself nodding slowly at the man when their eyes meet.

 

Snart’s cheeks are a little red from the cold, and for a moment, Barry thinks that he’ll just turn and walk away. It feels like a ridiculous start to some cosmic joke, _a hero and a villain walk into a bar_ , when Snart moves closer, slides into the seat next to Barry and waves at the bartender to get his order going. The place is half-empty – he could have easily found a different spot, but Barry thinks that maybe, Snart’s also feeling the unavoidable effects of the holiday propaganda about love and family and togetherness. Maybe, he just desperately doesn’t want to be alone: Barry knows that Cisco (finally) asked Lisa out and she said yes, which means Snart would likely be left to his own devices for the time being. It feels like a shitty thing to do to one’s single brother, but then, that just might be Barry’s own irrational bitterness projecting into his every thought.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Barry lifts his shotglass when Snart’s beer arrives. The man gives him a long look which makes Barry realize he’s gone past ‘apprehensive’ in regard to Snart’s presence and straight into the territory of ‘reluctant to see him leave’. How desperate does one have to be to actually _want_ to spend time with the man he’s fought at least on bi-monthly basis for the last couple of years? On a scale from one to ten, the answer is apparently _Barry Allen_.

 

“Yeah,” Snart grunts, and the one syllable perfectly captures a whole scale of hatred for these particular holidays. Barry could make jokes about Grinch, and last year, he probably would have. Right now, he can relate; he clinks their glasses together lightly and downs his shot.

 

“Can you even get drunk?” Snart asks, and Barry turns to see the man watching him.

 

“No,” he shrugs, mouth twisting a little into an ironic, crooked grin. “But I couldn’t just sit here and order nothing, could I.”

 

He probably would have… it’s not like he has money to waste on overpriced drinks that never kick in. Or maybe not. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, ingrained to the back of his mind, to order when he comes into a bar. So he always does, and tries to count his drinks so that nobody notices him being perfectly sober after thirty shots… but he doesn’t feel like counting tonight.

 

He watches Snart’s profile, defined hard in the blare of cheap, dusty lightbulbs, and worry starts niggling at the back of his mind after a while.

 

“Hey,” he mutters, “you’re not gonna steal anything tonight, are you?”

 

Snart shoots him an amused look, and one of his eyebrows twitches up almost imperceptibly.

 

“One part of my crew is currently trying not to freeze in her skimpy dress, and the other’s likely setting Christmas trees on fire. What do you think?”

 

Barry should probably be more concerned about Heatwave running around destroying Christmas decorations, but he’s surprisingly zen about it and he doesn’t feel like questioning his morals at the moment.

 

“Must be boring,” he says in the end and his mouth curves up in a grin around his shotglass when he sees Snart give him a mildly surprised look. He recovers quickly, though, and counters with a grin of his own:

 

“You could always entertain me yourself.”

 

Barry’s stomach twists at those words in a way he doesn’t understand, but then Snart’s gaze shifts away and Barry follows it to the pool tables, hidden away in a poorly lit corner of the bar.

 

“I don’t play,” he says – it’s not strictly true, but he’s always been awful at pool. With the strange competitiveness between the two of them, Barry’s not sure he wants to make a complete ass of himself in front of Leonard Snart.

 

The man huffs and looks decidedly unimpressed by Barry’s proclamation.

 

“You could learn.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Barry tries to protest and orders another drink, feeling a little twitchy under Snart’s scrutiny. He’s suddenly all too aware of how easy it must be for Snart to persuade people to join his complicated schemes; there’s something to be said about that steely gaze boring into you until all you want is to surrender to the man’s bidding. It’s a dangerous thought for someone who spends a significant portion of his days stopping guys like Snart… but Barry’s already decided not to be a hero tonight.

 

“Why?” Snart insists, still smirking, still staring. “You in a rush, kid?”

 

That startles Barry into chuckling – the last thing he expected to get out of tonight is honest amusement, and it leaves his defenses weakened against the demanding blue of Snart’s eyes.

 

“Fine. I’ll humor you – but I’m not playing you for money, understand?” he pokes his index finger in the air as a warning, in the vague direction of the villain’s smug face.

 

“Ah. You heroes, always taking the fun out of everything,” Snart croons, but he doesn’t look terribly upset when he slides off his bar stool and saunters into the shadows surrounding the pool tables. For a few seconds, Barry’s mesmerized by the sway of his hips and he doesn’t remember leaving his drink at the bar, but he can’t say he’s sorry.

 

Snart hands him a cue and smirks.

 

“First rule: don’t take anybody’s eye out, kid.”

 

“I’m not _that_ bad at this,” Barry scowls, and Snart laughs:

 

“You sure? Saw you crash into a parked car just last month.”

 

“After I tried not to get a blast of ice in the face,” Barry grumbles and wonders what possessed him to play pool with Captain Cold instead of walking away, but he accepts the cue anyway. Snart sets the chalk on the table in front of him and goes to retrieve a cue for himself, then gives Barry the Smug Smirk No. 4.

 

No, really, Barry has them catalogued and numbered, along with Unhappy Frowns and Calculating Stares. Surprisingly, Snart still manages to come up with new expressions to add to that list.

 

“You can start, kid.”

 

“You know,” Barry sighs as he leans over the table and tries to focus, “for someone who went into so much trouble finding out my name, you sure don’t use it much.”

 

The sound of Snart’s quiet laughter doesn’t improve Barry’s pool skills – but probably doesn’t worsen them either. Superspeed really doesn’t help much in terms of precision, and Barry thinks it’s mostly sad that he can calculate the trajectory of a bullet from the way blood hits the ground but can’t figure out how to get the right balls where they should go.

 

He doesn’t expect to enjoy himself, not when Snart keeps giving him these competitive smirks as he leans over the table and administers yet another perfect shot, but strangely, he finds himself thrumming with anticipation and excitement, trying hard even though he knows he’s not nearly good enough to win.

 

When Snart sinks the eight-ball prematurely, Barry whoops loudly and punches the air.

 

“Ha! Eat _that_ , Captain Smug!”

 

“ _Len_ ’s good enough… Barry,” the man smirks, and there’s something warm and indecipherable in his eyes as he watches Barry do his obnoxious victory dance around the table. That’s when it hits Barry, the absolute certainty that Snart just let him win. And he should be pissed, most likely, because Snart – Len – just let him make a fool of himself by being so loudly happy about an unearned win, but instead, he finds himself chuckling.

 

“I demand a rematch.”

 

“Isn’t that usually the loser’s privilege?”

 

“Why?” Barry raises an eyebrow pointedly at the man, then grins. “Are you in a rush?”

 

Len’s laughing as he leans over for his first shot, and he still sinks four balls like it’s nothing.

 

It’s three to one for Barry by the time the bartender comes over to tell them the bar will be closing soon, and Barry suspects that no matter how hard he tried, all of his wins can only be ascribed to Len’s strange generosity.

 

Len puts the cues back to their proper place and Barry watches his back shift under his black thermal shirt. He shed the parka sometime through the first game and Barry honestly hasn’t noticed until this moment, when Len reaches for the parka thrown over a nearby chair and shrugs it on. The sound of a zipper being drawn up makes Barry shudder, and the sense of loneliness comes crashing back in, sweeping any rationality away.

 

Len looks up, and their eyes meet. It’s as if the bubble they have subconsciously created around themselves to keep all the awful feelings at bay bursts and leaves them gasping for air under the sudden weight of it all. It’s still Christmas, and when they walk out of this bar, they will both be left stranded in the freezing air. Barry can see it as clearly as if it were a memory: side by side for a second or two, awkward silences and half-assed goodbyes before they both crawl back to where nobody’s waiting for them, before they become ‘Captain Cold’ and ‘Flash’ again.

 

Barry’s become good at fighting the odds in the past years; so he holds Len’s gaze for another second and then allows his shoulders to draw up in a shrug that hopefully comes off as non-committal and is just a thinly veiled wish to keep their bubble alive a little longer.

 

“Wanna come over? I have eggnog, and you can let me win at _Halo_.”

 

He would fully expect Len to say no, but the man doesn’t give him the time. With a barely-there nod, he smirks:

 

“It may come as a surprise to someone your age, kid, but not all of us have spent their lives mastering video games. I think it’s safe to assume any win of that kind would be rightfully yours.”

 

“We’ll see,” Barry chuckles and walks to the bar to pay for their drinks. He might feel a little funny paying for Len as well, but he ascribes it to the feeling that this is probably the first time in years that man’s had anything paid for by honest money.

 

As soon as they walk out, he grabs Len and flashes them to his apartment. Most of the food they’ve prepared or bought in advance is at Joe’s, but it would feel supremely wrong to let Len into his childhood home, a _detective_ ’s home nonetheless. He doesn’t attempt to phase them through the door: it’s a skill that can turn a little weird when he attempts to do it with another person, so Barry saves that for absolute emergencies. Digging keys out of his pocket doesn’t qualify as such; plus, the extra few seconds give Len time to get his bearings.

 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he chuckles as he opens the door. The apartment’s not much – a simple one-bedroom with a space that functions as a kitchen, dining room and living room in one. He got it because it’s just six blocks away from the precinct and he was thinking of Patty when he signed the lease; she slept over a couple of times, but never kept more than a toothbrush and a sleeping shirt here. In hindsight, it should have tipped him off that something wasn’t right. Now, he’s just glad there are no landmines of her presence to step on and remind him of what he doesn’t have anymore.

 

Len sweeps the space with an intent look that makes Barry wonder whether he’s calculating escape routes. It would make sense, given Len’s history and profession, but it still makes Barry’s stomach tighten, shifts their dynamics dangerously close to what they usually are to each other.

 

“So, um,” he says as he closes the door behind the other man, unwilling to let that feeling of safety and companionship evaporate completely. “You okay with _Halo_? I mean, I’ve got other-“

 

“I’m really not that into games.”  

 

Barry turns to him to say something clever about Len’s usual line of work, about scores and rivalry and the thrill of a chase, but whatever quip was on the tip of his tongue disappears as their eyes meet.

 

Len’s face shifts, softens; he glances at Barry’s mouth like he’s actively struggling against it.

 

And then they’re falling into each other – Barry couldn’t say who initiates the kiss, only that it burns away all thoughts left in his head. He could swear he leaned in first, for some reason he can’t fathom, but Len’s immediate response makes him believe that their timing was spectacularly aligned for once.

 

Len devours his mouth desperately and completely, with calculated precision that makes Barry’s blood rush south so fast that there might be sparks bursting to life along his veins. The kiss tastes like tequila and beer, and Barry can’t help the sounds he’s making into Len’s mouth. He curls his fingers in the padded material of the parka and draws Len closer: the man crashes into him and Barry’s back collides with a wall by the door. A picture frame falls to the ground, but Barry can’t for the life of him remember what photo it holds, and he couldn’t care less. He moves to put his arms around Len, and his wrists are suddenly pinned to the wall above his head.

 

Barry lets out a whine he normally wouldn’t be proud of, but pride’s clocked out for the day the moment their lips touched. He strains against Len for closeness and his needs are met, their bodies so close they’re almost touching. Len’s tongue is a delicious slide against Barry’s lips; he kisses deep and careful and desperate, like he’s got to savor every second before he’s pushed away.

 

All Barry can think is _too many clothes_.

 

“Bed… ah. Bedroom,” he manages, breathy and barely intelligible when Len moves on to attack his neck. Barry’s head thumps against the wall as he stretches, wanting more of that mouth on his skin; he forgot how much he missed the _sound_ of being kissed.

 

Len’s hands release his wrists and follow a trail down Barry’s arms, over his chest, to his waist. Barry takes the opportunity to touch, to try and push the parka out of the way. It’s not easy to pull the zipper down when their chests are inches away, so he almost gives a victorious cry when Len lets him win again and pulls away just enough to shuck the heavy material. He’s all muscle underneath, planes and curves straining against the tight thermal shirt. Barry pulls him back into a kiss – the move to the bedroom can wait a few seconds longer.

 

He slides his arms around Len’s shoulders as the man’s tongue invades his mouth again. Barry’s reduced to a groaning, breathless mess. He clings to the other man and spreads his legs a little to make it easier for their bodies to align; Len’s all warm weight and hard muscle as he presses into Barry and makes them both shiver when their hips meet. Barry’s running his hands over his shoulders, back, the nape of his neck, but Len’s tense under his touch, a taut bowstring ready to snap. He lets Barry draw him close, kisses his neck, but it’s easy to see the miniscule tremors of his body.

 

He loses his line of vision in the next moment: Len’s hands come up to his face, long fingers so, _so_ careful against Barry’s skin. His mouth is all red, like Barry’s staining him with his trademark colors from the inside, and his lashes cast soft shadows against his cheekbones when he watches Barry run his tongue over his lips. He’s breathing in fast gulps of air and when he glances up to meet Barry’s eyes, the speedster is struck by how beautiful Captain Cold really is. He can’t say he never noticed – but he’s never felt it as viciously and primitively as he does now, with his face cradled in his nemesis’ palms and his hips mere inches away from Len’s.

 

“Bedroom…?” he repeats, breathes the word like a question against Len’s lips because he still doesn’t know what it all means, what the other man wants. The thought of Len leaving coats Barry’s insides with ice. He’s not sure he could deal with being alone tonight: maybe he could’ve done it hours ago, when he walked into that bar with no hope of… anything. But now, laughing with Len and kissing him demolished all of Barry’s walls. He’s standing in his own apartment feeling naked and raw, putting all his hopes into the hands of a man he should be fighting and it’s such a stupid, reckless thing to do… but Barry still finds himself hoping that Len stays.

 

“Lead the way.”

 

Relief slams into Barry’s chest like a physical push and he can’t help the grin that spreads over his face. He kicks off his shoes and sheds his clothes on the way to the bedroom, as fast as he can without using his powers. He wonders if he should make more of a show out of it instead of presenting his eagerness so openly, but he doesn’t think he could pull off slow teasing and provocative looks. He’s not that graceful, and definitely not that patient. But when he turns, Len’s eyes are following the lines of his body with blatant admiration, and Barry’s self-consciousness slowly abates.

 

It helps even more when Len curls his long fingers against Barry’s neck and steps closer to kiss him. It’s all slow teasing this time, soft brushes of lips on lips until Barry’s yearning for more. He tries to push it, licks and nips and coaxes, but Len keeps his own pace no matter how many greedy sounds Barry fails to suppress. After a while, Barry resigns himself to his fate. He gives in and lets himself be steered backwards until his legs hit the bed: it’s unmade since he wasn’t expecting company, but Len doesn’t seem to care. Barry falls back onto the mattress, bounces up into Len who’s leaning over him in record time. The coarse, cold fabric of his jeans is a pleasant shock against the heated skin of Barry’s inner thighs. Len’s holding himself up on his elbows, but Barry craves the weight of him pressing him down until he can’t feel anything else. He spreads his legs and braces his knees against the rumpled sheets to give himself leverage; pushes his hips up just right and Len groans into his mouth, shaky and loud. Barry’s hand rises to tug at the thick material of the thermal shirt until he can push underneath and touch naked skin.

 

Len’s fingers immediately curl around his wrist and he pulls back, just one crucial inch. There’s something in his eyes that makes Barry pause, swallow hard against all the teasing remarks trying to spill out of his mouth. He doesn’t remember Len like this, no sarcasm, calculation or deceit – maybe he just had to get close enough to see underneath it all. And what Barry sees now is open and raw, vulnerability and discomfort bordering on fear. Barry involuntarily remembers that whole mess with Lewis and the way Len looked then, trapped and irritated while soldiering on with a brave face, with his eyes dead over a cynical smirk.

 

A second passes, then another. Barry’s half-expecting Len to push away, scramble back, mumble something about an errand and disappear. There’s something unnerving about staring at each other, like each of them is waiting for the other to make the first move. So Barry does. Because his body’s in no state to wait for difficult decisions, and because he needs more evidence to make the conclusion that’s already tingling in the back of his mind.

 

He runs a tentative caress across Len’s tightly-coiled shoulder with his free hand. It looks a bit like touching one of those plants that close up in human hands. It’s not much – a simple shift in posture, a barely visible tensing. But it looks like Len’s not simply straining to hold himself up. He’s moving _away_ from Barry’s touch half an inch at a time, like he’s trying not to but can’t really fight it, and Barry’s stomach twists up in knots.

 

He swallows hard and lets his hand drop to the mattress. Now that he knows what to look for, he can see Len’s whole body relax just a fraction at the motion, even though his eyes never stray from Barry’s face. Len slowly releases his wrist and lets him move, and Barry gets that he’s being tested. Len watches him like a hawk, like an immovable wall, but Barry knows that whether or not the other man stays hinges on Barry’s next move.

 

He holds Len’s gaze as his hands come up above his head – he has to shuffle a bit further up the bed to be able to grip the simple wooden bars of the headboard, but he manages, and gives Len a small smile. He’s always been awful at communicating what he felt, what he wanted, so he has no idea how to say ‘it’s okay if you don’t like to be touched’ – Len probably wouldn’t appreciate the bluntness anyway. But Barry lets himself hope that actions can speak louder than words even in situations like this. When Len slides up to settle between his spread legs and drags his lips over the pulse point on Barry’s neck, it feels like he’s made the right call.

 

One of Len’s hands trails up his naked arm to curl around his wrist, just for a second: it’s enough to make Barry worry that this is more of a ‘Cold’ thing, or maybe Len being worried about sleeping with a metahuman – maybe it’s not distaste for touch in general, just unwillingness to risk the touch of the Flash. He doesn’t want to bring that crap to bed with them: he doesn’t want them to be the Hero and the Villain right now, in the shadowy intimacy of his own bedroom.

 

But Len’s being so tender as he kisses haphazard trails over Barry’s neck and shoulder that the thoughts of any power-plays dissipate into the heated air between them. Len finds the best spot and Barry throws his head back: Len’s teeth graze the sensitive skin and Barry can’t hold back a shameless moan. His hands tighten around the bars with the urge to explore Len’s body, but he doesn’t want to risk anything, so he holds on and strains up with his chest, with his hips, trying to touch without touching.

 

Len chuckles into his flushed skin and the sound goes straight to Barry’s groin. He tilts his hips up again and lets out a shaky breath when his erection makes contact with Len’s thigh. The man must get the hint because his hand draws lazy lines over Barry’s chest, ribs, and stomach, until he’s cupping Barry’s cock in his palm. Barry keens like he’s never been touched before. It’s been too long for him, too long without any human contact and much longer since he’s been with a man, and the simple pressure of someone’s hand on him reduces him to a whimpering mess.

 

“What do you want?” Len whispers against his ear, tugs at his earlobe with his teeth, right on the good side of painful. Barry has a perfect visualization of what he wants in his head, but there’s no way he can say that out loud: when he was younger, he thought these things were easier to voice once someone already had their hands on his dick, but it turns out it just makes everything harder… pun intended.

 

“I…”

 

Len runs his thumb across the damp fabric of Barry’s underwear, along the line of his cock, and Barry loses his words, his head falling into his pillow as he tries not to come. He should be scared of the effect Len’s having on him, of how quickly he has come undone from just a bit of touching, but he knows he’ll be ready to go again in about five seconds even if he does come embarrassingly quickly… so he doesn’t sweat it much.

 

His hand’s shaking a little, at an extremely-turned-on-human speed, when he lets go of the headboard and reaches to the bedside table. It takes a moment to blindly find what he’s looking for, and he holds the tube up to Len when he does, his face burning and his body twitching with how much he _wants_ , even if he can’t put it into proper words.

 

Len stares at the tube for a while, but then he accepts it (and Barry notices how their fingers don’t even brush when he does). His voice is quiet when he speaks again, but Barry can hear the tremor in his words anyway.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes back, and it’s strange that he should be so certain about making himself this vulnerable to his nemesis, even though it’s emotional more than physical. The cold gun is nowhere in sight and if Len tried anything else, Barry could easily escape before the man could even blink… but looking up into Len’s eyes, bright in the faint light coming through the window, Barry’s having a hard time believing that this guy would hurt him right now. Regardless of their past and their future, right now, they’re just two people trying to fight off loneliness, and Barry’s okay with that.

 

Len lets the tube drop to the bed and pulls back: for a moment, Barry thinks he’s finally, _finally_ going to undress, but instead, Len yanks Barry’s underwear off in one fluid motion. It’s complete torture when he leans back down and Barry’s hips seek contact on their own: the rough material of Len’s jeans is definitely too much against his sensitive cock and he has to pull away immediately. Denied any friction, Barry groans in displeasure – but then Len’s mouth is back for a kiss and yeah, maybe he can wait for a while.

 

The sound of the tube being uncapped is like a snap in the quiet of the room and Barry instinctively pulls back from the kiss. Len seeks out his lips again, possibly to provide distraction. His fingers are a little cold when they run over Barry’s naked cock, but the resulting shiver doesn’t have anything to do with temperature. Barry’s so grateful for the friction that he whimpers pitifully when Len’s hand slips down over his balls.

 

When the first finger slips past the tight ring of muscle, Barry grips the headboard so hard his knuckles must be white. He doesn’t care – all he wants is _more_ , but Len, infuriatingly, stops.

 

“Okay?” he mumbles against Barry’s jaw. Barry would nod if he didn’t worry he’d slam his chin into Len’s nose in his enthusiasm; he lets out an affirmative ‘mmm’ instead and wiggles a little to let Len know that everything’s fine. It’s not like he’s never done this before, after all. The presence of another person may be a bit new, or at least mostly forgotten, but Barry’s dry spells have always lasted for months (years) at end, giving him plenty of time to engage even in his deepest fantasies while spending quality time with himself. So a finger, or three, is not a problem.

 

The mild discomfort at the beginning fades quickly, but Len’s still taking his sweet time, ignoring Barry’s pleading sighs and the greedy little motions of his hips. When he adds a second finger, Barry honestly wants to yell ‘finally!’ – but he has a feeling that would just make Len slow down further, so he bites it back, bites his lip so hard the pain is a quick flare that lets him get a grip. Len’s there to soothe the pain almost immediately, tongue moving in time with his hand and Barry’s kind of glad that he’s not required to do much work here, because he’s not sure he could remember what his hands are for at the moment.

 

Len kisses a trail down his jaw and neck, stops to lap at the hollow between Barry’s collarbones, drags his teeth across a nipple and then he’s licking a wet stripe up his cock and Barry nearly arches off the bed. His eyes go wide and he can _feel_ Len’s smirk where his lips are pressed against the vein along the underside of his erection; it’s the hottest thing Barry could’ve never imagined. When he gets his bearings enough to actually look, his stomach turns into jelly at the sight of Len, face framed between Barry’s naked, trembling thighs, his eyes all mischief, mystery and wicked sinful promises, lips wrapping around the head of Barry’s cock. He knows he’s gonna be fantasizing about this moment for months, maybe years: he can’t tear his eyes away and Len holds his gaze as he slowly, _slowly_ sinks down. Barry doesn’t think he’s ever experienced anything so mind-blowingly dirty. His cock hits the back of Len’s throat, and Len’s fingers are moving deep inside him while the man just stares at him with that heated look of his. The sensations and sights combined make Barry’s stomach muscles clench hard as he struggles not to be rude and just thrust up into Len’s mouth.

 

He’s about five seconds from having to decide whether he should risk letting go of the headboard to push at Len’s shoulder in warning or attempt to string together those elusive things called words before he comes down Len’s throat – but Len pulls away before Barry’s scrambled brain has to make that decision. Barry groans in displeasure at first: but then Len sits back on his heels and undoes his jeans, and Barry’s mouth waters at the sight. That’s how he knows that he would very much like to repay the blowjob favor sometime in the future: but his stretched ass is clenching around nothing but air at the moment and yeah, he’s got priorities.

 

He lets his thighs fall open as wide as they would go, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as Len’s jeans reveal the bulge straining against the dark fabric of his underwear. Len’s gaze burns against his skin as the man takes in Barry’s body in all its sprawled, inviting glory, and Barry wants to cry when Len doesn’t continue with the stripping. But then he’s covering Barry’s body with his delicious, warm weight, hot even through the thermal shirt that chafes a little as the fabric drags over Barry’s sensitive nipples. Len’s kiss is slow and languid, like he’s got all the time in the world and Barry’s frantically trying to coax him into something faster, but Len must be actually made of stone, dammit, because his tongue continues to lick lazy paths into Barry’s mouth with no hurry at all. Deprived of his hands, he hooks a knee over the back of Len’s thighs and attempts to draw them closer, rough jeans and dangerous zippers be damned, but Len’s pulling away and Barry nearly whines at the loss of his weight against him.

 

“Got condoms?”

 

The question almost brings tears of joy to Barry’s eyes and he nods weakly, motioning with his head towards the bedside table. Len leans towards it, supporting himself on one hand while he uses the other to rummage around in Barry’s mess of a drawer. His body’s arched in a delicious, perfect line and god, Barry just wants to tackle him to the bed and lick him all over, but… he has a feeling Len needs it like this, needs to be the one in control, if only because Barry’s got an unfair advantage of his meta abilities. So if this is how it needs to be, Barry’s willing to bend his wishes – it’s always this way for him, with the people he likes. Pushing his own wants out of the way to accommodate the other: he’s used to it, and he doesn’t mind, but it’s never been enough before and Barry’s heart clenches with how much he wants it, _himself_ , to be enough tonight.

 

Len’s eyebrow quirks up as he finally gets hold of a condom box.

 

“Extra strong?” he smirks, with those red, swollen lips that were stretched tight around Barry’s cock just seconds ago. Barry gives an appreciative ‘hmm’ at the sight, before his brain registers the actual question. He blushes a bit and shrugs:

 

“Yeah. They’re better, with… um. You know. Me being… me.”

 

With his speed and with the occasional vibrations, he can’t usually last very long – plus the thinner the condom is, the easier it tears. Patty was actually the one to figure that out: thinking of her breaks the moment a little for Barry, draws him into that vicious circle of regret and loneliness, so he pushes his memories of her as deep down as they would go. He focuses on Len instead and spreads his legs to the point where his tendons nearly scream, but that’s okay; he needs Len back with him, on top of him, _inside_ of him now, to push those memories that one last crucial inch into oblivion.

 

His face must betray something: he couldn’t say what, but Len’s smirk wanes a little and he gives a tight little nod before he’s settling back between Barry’s legs. He pushes his jeans and underwear down, just enough to free his cock. Barry tries to raise his head and _look_ , curiosity and need quivering in the pit of his stomach, but the angle’s really not that good, and Len’s making quick work of putting the condom on. He reaches for the lube and spreads some over himself; Barry can’t help the small, greedy noise that escapes his mouth at the sight of Len, kneeling between his thighs. There’s something forbidden, obscene, about him being nearly fully clothed, with his cock in his hand and slivers of skin showing between his jeans and the edge of his shirt. He catches Barry looking – the smirk comes back full force and his eyes are hungry as he leans down for a kiss. Barry has to admit, licking that smirk off is just as delicious as he could’ve imagined, in the darkest, deepest confines of his mind when he wouldn’t have believed this could be real. But Len is solid and warm and so very real now, hovering inches above him, and Barry has to feel more of this man, _all_ of him, right now.

 

Len grabs a pillow, chuckling quietly when Barry yelps as it drops his head and shoulders down a few inches. He dutifully braces his feet against the mattress and lifts his hips when he realizes what Len’s up to; the pillow ends up supporting his lower back and Barry quivers at the thought of what comes next.

 

Len guides himself in slowly; Barry might’ve been a little worried because there’s a huge difference between adding a finger or two when he’s jerking off and having an actual dick come anywhere near his ass, but it turns out he’s been worried over nothing. It feels absolutely, mind-blowingly divine, and Barry’s got no idea whether that’s because Len took so much time fingering him or if it’s just some weird natural compatibility they have, but he angles his hips for more and groans.

 

Len supports his weight on his elbows, hovering above Barry, his cock and hips being the only points of contact. He goes completely still, just a couple of inches in, and Barry’s breath catches in his throat when he opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and glances up.

 

He’s only ever done this once, in college, and he was on his hands and knees then. This is the first time he gets to look up into his lover’s eyes, pupils blown wide with want and warmth and wonder. Sweat’s beading on Len’s forehead and his mouth is hanging open, just a little, lips still reddened from kissing. Barry couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to – and he doesn’t, he just wants to look up at Len like this, watch the tiny shifts in his face as he slides home, a tenth of an inch at the time, filling Barry up. There’s something nearly spiritual about it, about the silence and the mingling of ragged breaths, about holding each other’s gaze while being as connected as two human beings can physically be. Barry feels the deprivation of touch like a physical ache in his belly. Strangely, he doesn’t even want to explore Len’s amazing body; he just wants to reach out and run his fingers over the angles of Len’s face, softened by his slack-jawed expression, to touch his lips and memorize him with his hands.

 

They kiss, soft and slow, breathing each other in, lips lazily slotting together, sloppy and perfect at the same time. At some point, Len slides all the way in and stills: his eyes widen a little and he just stares down at Barry again. It would be awkward if Barry wasn’t busy staring right back at him, his heart filling with the same awe he sees in Len’s face; neither of them probably expected it to feel like _this_ , simple and incredible and so very _right_. Barry knows _he_ hasn’t – but he’s glad for it, for Len to be so much at this very moment that Barry can’t think about anything else except this unbelievable man above (inside) him.

 

When Len finally moves, it’s just a slow roll of his hips, and Barry’s jaw goes slack. He doesn’t need the slow pace to adjust but he wonders if maybe, Len’s the one who needs a minute, so he tries not to push for more just yet. He does his best to savor the moment before the pace of it all becomes frantic and wild; it’s not so easy, though. He’s so hard he could cry and the friction’s not nearly enough to get him off. Len shifts a little, and his cock drags ever-so-slowly against Barry’s prostate – the sound it forces out of him is inhuman, and it takes all of his willpower not to let go of the headboard and tighten his arms around Len’s shoulders. He’s only human, in the end, meta or not: his thighs quiver with the need for more and he’s pretty sure he’s going to cry for real if Len doesn’t start moving faster in the next second. He hooks his leg over Len’s hip to try and communicate just how ready he is for _faster_ -

 

He stills when he becomes aware of what he’s done. His eyes fly open and fear clenches his gut, fear that Len will leave or just push his leg off. Len stares down at him for a second and he’s shifting his weight, away from the calf resting across the back of his thighs. Barry’s stomach turns to ice – but then, he realizes Len’s just bracing his weight on one elbow, reaching back with his other hand, warmed-up sweaty fingers trailing up Barry’s thigh until his hand hooks under Barry’s knee and just holds it right where it is. It’s a wordless encouragement, tentative invitation mirrored in Len’s eyes, and Barry has to wonder why it feels so much more intimate to have Len’s hand on his naked skin when Len’s cock is currently filling Barry’s body and his mouth has been in far more private places.

 

Len’s still holding his leg up when he rolls his hips again, just as excruciatingly slowly as before. Barry’s eyes water, but it feels like something has shifted between them, and he finds himself relaxing a little into Len’s torturous pace. The need to come, to push for more is still there, it’s just subdued under the whirlwind of unexpected _feelings_ that swirl through Barry’s head as he looks up into Len’s eyes, half-lidded and unguarded at every tiny half-thrust.

 

Once he surrenders to the fact that Len’s not speeding up anytime soon, the world seems to slow and become just the two of them. Barry loses track of time, his consciousness reduced to the sight of Len above him, to the feeling of Len moving, every single tiny twitch of motion like a lightning bolt up Barry’s spine. In mere minutes, he’s trembling so hard he worries he’s going to start vibrating, and he grips the headboard tight to try and overcome that. The involuntary vibrations have always been a large part of his problems during sex after he got his powers, but somehow, it’s easier to concentrate when Len’s going so slow.

 

His mouth is all bruised and swollen, too sensitive from kissing. Barry wonders how it must feel for Len, without the accelerated healing, but Len never stops brushing his lips against Barry’s shoulder, his neck or cheek, every inch of skin he can reach without going too far. His shirt is soaking up Barry’s sweat; it rides up a little as they rock together and Barry’s inner thigh is pressed up into Len’s naked hip: it’s the single most erotic thing Barry’s ever experienced in his life. Len’s hand leaves his knee and Barry very nearly whines in protest, but then Len’s brushing away his sweaty hair from his forehead, breathing a lingering kiss against Barry’s temple, and it’s too much, too tender. Shivers become vibrations and Barry tries to force it down, but he can’t – he can feel himself inching towards orgasm and it’s impossible to concentrate. The sound of cracking wood is loud and startling in the quiet room, but Barry’s past caring; one of the headboard bars in his grip gives out on him and his hand snaps loose, splinters burrowing into his skin. Barry uncurls his cramped fist to reach for the headboard again, not wanting Len to worry and needing to grip _something_ or he will end up grabbing for Len-

 

-and then Len’s hand brushes down his wrist, fingers trailing the lines of his palm. Len’s hips snap forward and Barry arches up to meet him, head falling into the pillow and stars dancing at the edges of his vision. Their fingers tangle together and Barry tries to swallow his cry, but then Len moves, slow and perfect and _just there_ and Barry’s coming in spasms and strangled gasps. He’s still incoherent, trembling, a sweaty, sated mess riding out the aftershocks when Len shudders hard against him, _in_ him, and his hand tightens in Barry’s almost to the point of pain. He buries his face in Barry’s neck and just breathes it out; he muffles a whimper against Barry’s skin and it shoots straight to Barry’s heart, making his heaving chest overflow with things he’s terrified to think about.

 

Len’s heavy, collapsed on top of him, and the button of his jeans digs into Barry’s thigh. He doesn’t care – they’re still holding hands in the darkness of the room that’s starting to come into focus. Barry stares up at the ceiling and imagines how it would feel like if he never had to let go… but eventually, Len’s fingers untangle from his and he rolls to the side with a quiet huff. Barry shivers violently at the sudden burst of cold air against his overheated, damp skin. He reaches for the comforter, twisted up to the side, and drags it over himself, feeling glad that he kept the bed unmade so he doesn’t have to get up now to cover himself. He turns to his side and just watches Len; there’s something languid, relaxed in the man’s features, almost sleepy, and Barry moves so that he can offer a half of his comforter and his bed.

Len sits up, and Barry’s heart lurches in his chest.

 

“Stay,” he whispers as the other man swings his feet off the mattress. Barry watches him stand up and toss the condom to a paper bin, then pull his pants all the way up: there’s a flash of naked ass somewhere in there and Barry has to bite his lip not to reach for the strip of naked skin, some of it likely still warm from where it was pressed against Barry’s thigh.

 

“Please,” he says when Len takes a step towards the door – it feels too final, too _soon_ and Barry’s not ready. It’s probably a bad idea to linger, his feelings already a hailstorm he can’t see through: it won’t do him any good in the long run, no good at all when Len decides to rob a bank next week and Barry will have to be there to fight him. But for now, he doesn’t care – the vicious loneliness is creeping back into his heart and Barry’s reluctant to let it overwhelm him again. “Stay.”

 

Len turns to him with an exasperated look – Barry feels sixteen and naïve, and he hates it. Len shakes his head and it’s like he’s shooting his cold gun into Barry’s chest.

 

“Not going anywhere. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

 

That… gives Barry a pause. He blinks, confused, and scrambles to sit up – his lower back twinges, but it’s manageable, he’s had so much worse.

 

“What?” he asks, because Len’s not making any sense. Barry’s bed might not be huge, but it’s definitely large enough for two adults to sleep comfortably. Is Len worried that Barry might cross some boundaries in his sleep, snuggle up and touch, without meaning to, without knowing? Barry’s stomach twists into a knot at the reasons his brain is offering for such a reaction. What happened to Len that made him like this…? He wants to find out and hurt the person who ingrained it in Len’s brain that it wasn’t okay to be touched, but he has a feeling Len took care of that himself (and let himself be dragged to prison for it afterwards, so many months ago).

 

Len doesn’t say any of it. His expression is shifting from vulnerable to calculating, just a little, but Barry’s spent the last half hour staring up into that face, so it’s easy for him to take notice.

 

“Can’t sleep, with someone tossing and turning beside me,” and the smirk is back – is it wrong that Barry wants to kiss him regardless? “Got a feeling you’re not a calm sleeper, Scarlet.”

 

Barry laughs through the urge to beg and reaches back for a pillow (considers grabbing the one that rested under his hips just a moment ago, but he’s not feeling vindictive enough to have Len sleep on lube stains). He throws it Len’s way, and the man lets it connect with his chest, curls an arm around it to keep it from falling.

 

“Don’t leave before breakfast,” Barry mutters, and that’s as close to begging as he’ll allow himself to go.

“I make mean pancakes.”

 

“How generous of you,” Len smirks again and then he’s gone, in the depths of Barry’s apartment, and technically it’s still Barry’s space, so he shouldn’t be feeling so lonely… but he can’t help the vice-like grip his ribs seem to have on his lungs when he lowers himself back to the bed and stares at the space where Len was just a moment earlier.

 

He tries to go to sleep, tries not to worry about whether or not Len will be there in the morning. After some time, it becomes obvious that he has to go pick the splinters out of his palm because the awful itching of the skin that’s trying to heal around tiny pieces of wood won’t let him sleep. It’s easy to tell himself that’s the only reason why he throws the comforter away and gets up, picking up his underwear from where it got tossed all the way across the room. Barry makes a face as he touches the cold, damp fabric and blindly reaches into his underwear drawer for a clean pair.

 

He’s trying to be quiet as he crosses the dark living room, but Len must have trouble falling asleep as well. Barry can see him as a darker outline in the shadows of the room when he raises his head off the couch.

 

“Bad dreams?” he smirks – Barry can _hear_ it even though he can’t see, and it’s a strangely warm thought, that he can recognize Len’s various degrees of teasing and irony based on voice alone.

 

“Splinters,” he admits sheepishly and attempts to walk around the couch, not wanting to be teased for breaking his own bed, which sounds stupid even in Barry’s head.

 

What he does _not_ expect is for his feet to get tangled into something soft. His speed does absolutely nothing to prevent him from faceplanting to the floor, except maybe give him enough time to think _fuck, why me_.

 

“Oww,” he groans once he’s on the ground, scowling in the dark towards the sound of Len’s quiet laughter.

 

“You okay there?”

 

“Your parka’s trying to kill me,” Barry huffs and sits up, grabbing the offending garment and throwing it in the general direction of the couch.

 

“You want some help with that?”

 

“Thanks,” Barry grumbles and collects himself from the floor. “I can get up on my own.”

 

“I meant the splinters, kid. It’s your right hand, isn’t it.”

 

Barry’s well aware of the difficulty setting on trying to pick tiny pieces of wood out of his dominant hand, but the offer takes him by surprise.

 

“I… guess? Yeah, that’d be nice.”

 

Len scoffs in the dark, probably at being called nice in any context, and Barry can hear him shifting on the couch.

 

“Get the lights, then.”

 

Barry manages not to fall over again – if there’s nothing on the ground, he can navigate his own apartment pretty well, thank you very much. He winces when the sharp light hits his retinas, and turns to catch Len wearing a similar scrunched-up grimace. Barry finds that hilarious, but he keeps the teasing to himself in case Len reconsiders his offer.

 

He grabs the first aid kit from under the sink and sits on the toilet; Len crouches in front of him and his knee brushes Barry’s leg. He goes still and pretends it’s because Len’s spraying disinfectant over his palm, but it’s really because he doesn’t want to move away from the warmth.

 

Len applies his laser focus and tweezers expertly, and Barry can’t help but stare at him, imagining the man twenty years ago, picking splinters out of his sister’s hands. The thought comes to Barry like a wave, fondness and heat and please-don’t-leave, and he really hopes that Len will stay, for the pancakes and maybe round two.

 

The tiny bits of wood are gone with only mild discomfort and Barry’s skin tingles as it begins to heal properly. He’s not ready to let Len move away, to go back to his bedroom that’s so cold without the presence of the other man to focus on, and Barry opens his mouth before his brain can kick in.

 

“I need a shower.”

 

Len gives him a quizzical look and smirks, tightly.

 

“Sounds enticing, kid, but I’m not twenty anymore.”

 

Barry gapes, mostly because the mental image sears into his brain with intense clarity; but he’s well aware that stamina is not the only problem here. Not that he was suggesting _that_ in the first place – even though he’s having trouble resetting his brain to the original train of thought at the moment.

 

“I meant, I need a shower. And if you want one, I can lend you some clothes. And… maybe watch a movie? Something that’s got nothing to do with Christmas,” he scrunches up his face. He’s not feeling the hatred for the holiday as a whole right now, but he still very much doesn’t want to be slapped in the face with Christmas-flavored clichés either way.

 

Len considers it for a moment, tilts his head to the side in a way that makes Barry think of a dog, and then shrugs.

 

“Sounds good. You can go first,” he nods, eyes touching the skin somewhere around Barry’s stomach, and he looks down only to find that there’s some drying come just above his hip.

 

“Ugh,” he makes a face and Len laughs again, then leaves Barry to it.

 

He feels a lot less gross when he steps out of the shower and walks back to the bedroom, throwing a passing smile at Len, who’s sitting on the couch shuffling through the latest _Scientific American_ Barry hasn’t had time to even open. He grabs a T-shirt and sweats for himself and then tries to find something that would be big enough for Len: he throws in an old hoodie as well in the end. Len might choose to wear it or not, over the shirt that will hopefully fit, but Barry has a feeling the man might need the choice of layers.

 

He spends the ten minutes it takes for Len to come back from the bathroom wondering why it doesn’t feel more awkward, having his nemesis over like they’ve done this hundreds of times. Now that the heady rush of sex has cleared away from Barry’s mind, he waits for the wariness, weirdness to kick in, but it doesn’t, not even when Len emerges and joins him on the couch, smelling like Barry’s soap and wearing Star Wars sweatpants (and yes, the hoodie).

 

They end up watching old Disney classics and Barry really expects Len to protest against the slightly childish choice, but those movies always made Barry feel better and he has a feeling that Len might’ve been a kid when they first came out, so maybe he has some nice memories of them too. He can’t say if it’s true or not, but by the end of _Beauty and the Beast_ , Len’s smiling a little at the screen, so Barry figures it was the right call.

 

He doesn’t even remember shuffling to bed, but he must have, because he wakes to the smell of coffee when the sun hasn’t yet had the chance to warm the frosty air. He accepts the steaming mug when he shuffles out of the bedroom and Len gives him a small smile, and Barry feels like he doesn’t really miss unpacking presents if this is what he gets instead.

 

He does make pancakes, in the end; Len teases him mercilessly about the amount of food he can stuff his face with, but he joins Barry on the couch for _Lion King_ and then makes mean pasta for lunch while Barry’s marveling at how many things were in his kitchen that he didn’t even know about.

 

Around two, Barry starts getting twitchy. His mind keeps straying to Joe, and he wants to go see him in the hospital, he does, and he _should_ , but he keeps wanting to steal one more moment with Len, one more moment of this perfect peace before he has to shatter it all. He thinks he’s doing a good job of not looking at his phone until Mulan saves the day and Len turns to him with a frown.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks bluntly, and Barry sighs, letting his head drop against the backrest. His feet are curled up on the couch and his toes are soaking up the warmth of Len’s thigh, and he doesn’t _want_ to move, but at the same time he does and it’s killing him.

 

“Joe’s been shot,” he mutters. Len’s eyes go wide, then narrow:

 

“When?”

 

“Yesterday. It’s not serious, well, the surgery went well, it’s just… I really should go see him,” Barry mumbles. To his surprise, Len reaches out and pats his foot, then saves Barry the trouble of deciding on his dilemma, getting up from the couch.

 

“Family’s important. I’ll go get changed.”

 

Barry blinks at that, because it sounds like a non-sequitur in his head.

 

“What?”

 

Len raises an eyebrow at him like he’s an idiot, and his mouth twists up in a sarcastic smirk.

 

“You’re going out. Want me to stick around and wait for you like a good wife, kid?”

 

It sounds ridiculous when Len says it like that, but Barry still has to swallow the _yes_ that jumps up into his mouth.

 

“No, yeah, you’re right,” he shrugs and rolls off the couch. He has to change into something presentable as well… and sort through his feelings, mostly the weird reluctance to let Captain Cold _leave_ his apartment. He can’t help but dread the moment Len steps out of his door – it feels like an inevitable end to all these crazy, wonderful hours of mind-blowing sex, comfort food and old cartoons, and Barry should get a grip and let this die down before it kills him, in a very literal and terrifying way.

 

He’s awful at letting things go, though, and it must show on his face, because Len’s expression softens a little when Barry comes back out, wrapped up in his coat and pocketing his phone.

 

“Gotta see if Cisco treated my sister right,” Len says, a propos of nothing, and Barry hates that it makes him smile to hear a reason for Len’s leaving, other than ‘this is over.’

 

He’s still surprised, though, when Len catches his elbow and pulls until Barry turns, and then warm lips are on Barry’s, tasting like his own toothpaste and moving so very slow that heat pools in Barry’s stomach, bringing up memories of last night.

 

“If you need someone to ignore New Year’s with, call.”

 

Len runs down the stairs before he can respond that he doesn’t have Len’s number – but later on, when he’s laughing at Joe’s miserable rant about hospital food, his phone vibrates in his pocket and there’s a text message from… ‘Grinch.’ Barry chuckles before even reading it, and then he’s laughing in earnest because his fellow Christmas-hater felt the need to tell him that _apparently, there is no need to put fear of god in ramon just yet._

 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a pretty good night,” Joe teases, and Barry snickers when he pushes the phone back into his pocket.

 

“Just a little Christmas miracle, that’s all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [tumblr](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/) :)


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